


Private Evenings Part Three: The Wedding Threvening

by WendyNerd



Series: Private Evenings [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Smut, Stripping, Wedding Night, Woman on Top, private evenings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long wait, Jon and Sansa have their wedding night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Evenings Part Three: The Wedding Threvening

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd! Hope you guys like it regardless!

It was not easy for the bride to withdraw discreetly from her own wedding banquet, especially when she was the recognized Lady of the castle, and a royal bride.

They’d announced beforehand that there would be no bedding, of course. Much to the disappointment of the court. But there were always those few (especially when many of the wedding guests were in their cups) who hoped to overturn the order. Hence why, when the night came, the usually-somber and non-festive prince led the dancing with his wife on his arm and refused to surrender her as the night wore on, keeping his hand at her waist even when they took a break to catch their breath and sip their Arbor Gold. 

Jon was no great dancer, lacking enthusiasm and interest. But he and his new wife had practiced that during their evenings alone as much as they practiced other things. “And how am I doing, My Lady?” He asked her well into the night, as they moved to a slow, pounding Northern beat, their bodies close. His finger stroked one of hers, and his teased her flesh.

He’d not been too excited to practice dancing at first. During his boyhood, he found it empty, mindless frivolity, something for giving ladies something to do. But revisiting the activity as a man, with the proximity of their forms, an excuse to put his hand to her waist, the rhythm in which they moved as one, the excuse to publicly be up close to see the flush come to her cheeks and hear the quickening of her breath… He’d discovered an appreciation for it that he’d never appreciated as a boy.

Sansa had proved a fine teacher, save for one thing: dancing with her could be so very distracting. Only his determination to make her proud allowed him to focus, and then only some of the time. How was he supposed to concentrate on a beat and steps when he had the perfume of her hair, the softness of her flesh, the arch of her neck inches from him?

Though his skill had improved, never did he feel as likely to stumble as he did this night. For how could anyone with a beating heart and a living soul manage to draw their attention to anything but his bride on this day? Had any person, could any person, manage to look like this?

Shining silvery-white lace, so fine that it looked like frost (complete with a snowflake pattern) lay over a lining of the palest blue. The lace extended beyond her blue cuffs and white hands, fringed with crystal beading ending in opals, resembling snowdrops. And while the blue silk also stopped just above the curve of her breasts, the icy lace traveled up her long, elegant neck, ending with an opal choker. White-gold cords, studded with the same stones, wove through the red hair at her crown. Said red hair was braided, pinned, and netted with white gold. Despite the demure arrangement, he found it tantalizing. He couldn’t imagine any man looking at that pinned up, trapped auburn hair and thinking of anything but freeing it from its frosty prison, seeing it cascade down her neck, back, shoulders, bosom, pillow…

Now, she smiled at him. “You have done more than well, my lord husband.” And he could see in her blue eyes that despite her frosty garb, she felt every bit of heat he did. And Jon felt as much aflame as the scarlet dragon and fire pattern that adorned his black doublet.

She leaned in closer, face flushed, eyes shining, “And as you’ve satisfied me one way, I think it is only time that you satisfy me another.”

He stiffened. Not just in his breeches, but everywhere. The last minutes of the song were exquisite torture. Sansa pulled from him and announced she needed to excuse herself “briefly.”

The lords around heard this, and the great hall quieted. The silence seemed to echo more through the high ceilings than even the music. Distracted from his lust, Jon whistled for his direwolf, who cut through the crowd like butter.

“Take him with you,” Jon told her, “A lord husband must protect his lady wife.” 

He saw shoulders sag and faces fall. And when Sansa left, Ghost padded after her faithfully, Jon turned to the crowd and bellowed, “How about a song, my lords?!” 

Jon enjoyed the drinking and songs less than the dancing, but suffered through ‘Her Little Flower’, ‘The Dornishman’s Wife,’ and finally, “Meg Was A Merry Maid.” Until finally breaking from the arms of his swaying male guests and their bawdy winks and announcing his desire to retire.

“I need to have some energy left for my bride, my lords,” he offered them with an insincere wink. A cheer went up, and he downed the last of his tankard and slammed it upon the table for good measure, thanking the gods that Rickon had gone to bed hours ago.

As a lad, he’d loved the bawdy jests and songs and company of the men around him. He’d been thrilled when, as a young man, he’d been occasionally handed cups of summerwine, received cheers he finished them, and invited to join in with their songs of things he’d yet to discover. He felt a man then. He’d desired nothing more than that comraderie.

But that had changed, now that he was a man. He misliked the songs of the “glories” of war and the insidious lies they told, the destructive desire they inspired. He misliked the songs of women, the light they made of love and ladies. He disliked them even more when people sang them and were clearly thinking of the women he’d loved. He’d not appreciated japes from the raiding party about him and Ygritte all those years ago. And he did not appreciate them about Sansa now. He enjoyed jokes and playfulness about bedding with the women he’d coupled with, but with a group of drunken men who simply wished to be in his place? No.

And it dishonored her. She was their lady. They owed her respect. And she was his.

That inspired the eagerness with which he departed the great hall even more than his discomfort with the men. At last. At last the night had come.

He journeyed to her chambers and found the heavy wooden door with an eager step as he had so many nights now. But he stopped when he found it and took a deep breath. He focused on the woodgrain of the ancient, old door. He’d seen this door, which was so much like every other one in Winterfell, countless times since he was born. As a boy, it had been the entrance to Lady Stark’s chambers, where he was not permitted entrance. The other children were, and the various ladies of the household, Maester Luwin, and, of course, Lord Stark. But not Jon. And sometimes he’d look at that door, especially after perhaps Robb or Arya had gone in, and wonder what lay beyond it. He’d heard they were the warmest rooms in the keep. And sometimes he’d overhear Sansa speak excitedly of the elegant things her mother had and how she longed to have them when she was a married lady. Every so often, on evenings when he passed her door, he’d see Lady Catelyn emerged from her apartments with a silver brush and mirror in hand, and make towards Sansa’s rooms. They were the only things aside from her clothing or sometimes sewing that he ever saw from her chambers. But those rooms were a mysterious, forbidden place to his boyhood. A door barring all that he didn’t have, all the reasons he wasn’t a Stark. 

Then his return, and his partnership with Sansa. He’d been invited to those rooms every night for over a year now. And what he found inside were fantastic, warm, lovedly mysteries and charms, but they did not for a moment feel like anything he’d been denied, anything that felt it belonged to Lady Catelyn. Though many of the things within were, in fact, inherited from her mother, Sansa’s things--- her furniture, her tools, her sewing, her decorations--- they all seemed hers. Only hers. Even things like the writing desk by the window that was engraved with swimming Tully trout or the red and blue curtains and the tapestry of Riverrun that hung by her bedchamber door.

Now, though, all that lay within those chambers were not hers. Not exactly. They were _theirs._ Sansa did not wish to leave her rooms, and she wanted them to share chambers, and decided that this would be where they lived. Two nights before, when they lay together below her furs half-naked, she’d stroked his chest and said, “Hard to believe that in a couple of days, this will be our marriage bed.”

While he still would reserve his own chambers for appearances and practicality, Sansa seemed quite certain that the rest of his life would be spent in residence beyond this door. She’d had most of his things moved in during the days before the wedding. She’d even had some of his furniture brought in. Apparently she’d made other arrangements to accommodate him, though he’d yet to see them. But still, despite the evenings he’d spent there, despite the intimacy she’d granted him, he still wasn’t sure he could enter those rooms and think they were his as well.

He took a deep breath and composed himself, then slowly knocked. What lay beyond was more than rooms and a woman. What lay beyond was his life, his family, his heart. All that he’d ever wanted and waited for. He would greet it with as much elegance and composure as he could.

Her maid opened the door and curtseyed. “She is in the bedchamber, My Lord. Not quite ready---“ 

“I will enter,” Jon said firmly, “I will not force anything on her ladyship, but I will not be---“ 

“---Of course, My Prince, her ladyship said to allow you to enter.” The mousy girl cut in with a small smile. “She said that she trusts you to be patient.”

He nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Thank you. My apologies.”

The maid led him to the door and opened it, hurrying over to the dressing table on the other side of the room. Jon felt his breath catch. The chamber was lit by red candles, casting the room a rosy glow. The curtains of the bed, he noticed, had been changed from draped of blue velvet and silver braid to red velvet lined with white satin and silver cords. The coverlet and furs had been folded open, revealing white satin sheets strewn with the petals of winter roses.

A black, lacquered wash stand and wardrobe, he noticed, had been placed beside the cheery-wood bureau and wardrobe that belonged to his wife. His chests had been moved in as well, by the long mirror in a far corner.

His bride, though, sat at the dressing table against the far wall, wrapped in a white silk dressing gown. Her hairnet and opal cords had been removed. And he saw watched her through the mirror. He saw himself standing in the background like a shadow. He saw, back straight, white skin flushing slightly, blue eyes shining bright, red lips curling. Their eyes met through the looking-glass. His blood boiled.

The maid moved to begin unpinning Sansa’s unadorned hair.

“No!”

The maid froze. And Jon blushed. “That is… Mistress… You needn’t...” _You mustn’t._

“That shall be all, Cissy,” Sansa said, patting her maid’s wrist. The girl fought a smile.

“Goodnight, My Lady.” She bobbed curtsies to them both and flew from the room, trying to stifle her giggles.

Once they were alone, Jon took a step towards his prize, but she spoke up.

“Bar the door, strip, and wash yourself.” She said at once.

He groaned and made his way to the new washbasin. “When was this ordered?”

“Weeks ago. A wedding present.” She smiled, turning around on her stool and leaning back against the table behind her. She watched him carefully. “If you would strip, My Lord.”

Another groan escaped him as he shouldered off his doublet. In the months since they’d first begun exploring one another, his bride had gotten over so much of her nerves. She’d come alive for him, seized by confidence, directness, excitement. It made him weak. It made him worship her. And, oddly enough, it increased his own confidence. Uncomfortable he might have been with the men downstairs. But with her, he loved the games, the mischief.

“You’re a cruel woman,” he told her, very slowly and deliberately undoing the ties of his tunic, revealing his chest inch by inch. He watched her eyes narrow. 

“I am the soul of kindness. It is you who is the cruel one. The tease.”

Snickering, Jon dropped his tunic and, naked to the waist, began oh-so-slowly unlacing his strained breeches. The look in her eyes as she watched him made his cock stiffer than anything. She watched him, wanted him, craved him, lusted for him. It was powerful.

Jon pushed both his trousers and smallclothes down his hips, feeling his cock spring free at last. Both of them groaned. Him with relief. Her with lust.

Once he was naked, he looked at her and grinned. “Your turn.”

She nodded and got to her feet. “Wash as I do.” 

His breath caught, but he did as told, wetting a cloth in the full basin prepared for him, and running it across his chest, the water a shocking contrast to the heat of the room. At last. 

Deliberately and expressly, he’d avoided seeing his bride fully naked until now. Many times, she’d offered. But he’d refused, bidding her to keep her bodice wrapped and her stockings on. Ridiculous in some ways, he supposed, given that he’d been nose-deep in her womanhood. But it was something he wanted to save for this night. 

To his delight, she teased him, very slowly undoing the sash of her dressing down and letting it fall from her shoulders and arms with a languid pace before it fell to the floor. More white silk, a nightdress adorned with red ribbons that fastened both the short sleeves and the front of her bodice before meet in satiny bows at the center of her breasts. Slyly gazing at him with a bowed head, his bride undid one bow slowly, loosening the binds of her short sleeves. One fell down an alabaster shoulder to hang loosely at her upper arm, then the other. Jon gulped, letting his cloth-laden hand sink to the place between his legs and his male parts. It offered him little relief.

“Ah ah ah!” Sansa said then, wagging a finger. “You will not be bringing yourself off tonight, My Prince. Other parts of your body need cleaning.”

Gasping, he began washing his legs, which seemed to be made of jelly all of a sudden.

Satisfied, his wife undid the other bow and oh, oh so slowly loosening her front laces. The top fell apart at first with an increasingly-expanding, satiny red X over the top of her bosom. The laces slipped through the first fastenings, causing the next inch to fall open, the next X to expand, the hollow between those plump mounds of flesh to reveal themselves. Then the next, and the next…

Her nipples, however, were not entirely revealed, for the laces stopped just below her bosom. Her hands caught the parted fabric just in time, slender wrists blocking those pieces of her. Cruelly, she turned to the side, her expression coy, and inched the loose fabric down until it pooled at her feet with the robe.

Only then did she step from the puddle of fabric on the floor, turn to him, and show him herself at last. Rosy tips to her lush bosom, hard and pointed. A slender waist with a hint of soft flesh. White legs that went for miles until the reached that red, curly juncture. Jon saw the wetness that glistened on the innermost part of her thighs, and his control vanished. 

The wet cloth dropped to the ground, and seconds later, he had her in his arms, spun around, back against his chest, backside swelling against his cock. He pressed his open mouth to the hollow of her throat and took a deep breath. She smelled like cinnamon and roses and lemons and womanhood. She gasped against him. “Jon!”

“Shhhh…” He told her, holding her close against him with one arm. He turned them both to the full length mirror and gestured to the reflection. He was flush against her. But she did not appear scared, just giddy. He met her eyes in the reflection. “Watch yourself. I want us both to see every bit of how beautiful you are.”

She moaned, leaning her head back as he ran his tongue up her neck. She clutched at his arm with one arm, then with the other reached up to clutch his hair, pulling his head into position to kiss him deep. She tasted like sweet summer wine. When they broke apart for breath, he seized the hand at her hair and forced it down her front. “Touch yourself.”More moans, but she did as told. Tapered middle and index fingers dove within the coarse red curls between her thighs. Jon, meanwhile, focused his free hand on yanking the pins out of her hair, finally freeing the dusky waves of silk to cascade down her shoulders. The ends of it teased his arm, her bosom, his face. Once it was free, he took a length of it in hand and kissed it, loving the cool smoothness against his face. He could feel his cock leaking against the hot, soft swell of her arse.

Abruptly, he released her, but immediately reaching to catch her as she stumbled slightly.

Sansa steadied herself, panting but sure-footed. “Enough games. Get on your back, head near the foot of the bed.”

“Near the foot of the bed?” He asked, already rushing over. 

“You said you wanted us both to watch me,” she growled as he began to lay himself atop the furs. She walked to foot of the bed and parted the curtains there, hooking them to the posts, then moved to the side to climb on and straddle him. She gazed down at him, hips lifted, hair loose, face red, and took his hands in hers. “At last.”

She positioned herself at the tip of his cock and, with a groan, began to lower herself, slowly engulfing his manhood in the hot, wet, pulsing grip of herself. He barely registered something give way. Though her breath caught at one moment and she paused, soon, she sank down fully.

Their hands went to her hips and their eyes met. “I love you,” he told her, head fuzzy. 

“I love you.” She began to move atop him. And Jon was lost to her. Lost to the warmth, the pleasure, the grip, the perfection. Lost to how her perfect teats bounced and swayed. Lost to how she tossed her head, her red hair. Lost to her moans. She seemed as much inside him as he was inside her, more so. So inside him that before long, there was no him, no anything but them. 

More, more. He could not have enough. He could not have enough until he’d had too much, and he exploded within her, seed erupting. Soon after, she collapsed beside him, curling up against him, body pulsing in sync with his. Instinctively, he held her, fingers finding her hair. His eyes managed to open and find her, head rest against his chest.

“Did you find your pleasure?” He asked.

“Yes, Jon,” she said with a breathless laugh, as if the question were absurd. He grinned.

“You will find it again,” he told her, certain. “Tonight, I want you to count how many times. How many ways. I hope the dancing did not tire you, My Lady. For I do not think it shall be long before I am ready once more to have you.”

Her hand found his chest and curled at the hair there. “You had better make me lose count before this night is over, My Prince.”


End file.
